


Petrichor

by SynnoveD



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Headcanon, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6792427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SynnoveD/pseuds/SynnoveD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Seifer wants is a drink in this new place he calls home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petrichor

**Author's Note:**

> This is a headcanon I've been developing for my post game Seifer RP which introduces a theory I call "bloodlines" to explain why Seifer has abilities that allow him to cast magic (specifically fire) without the use of Junction. This drabble is inspired by a word prompt given to me by rosearma on Tumblr.

It’s after the war and the Renegade Knight has arrived in Dollet. 

He’s sitting in the Shining Bomber, drinking a glass of Krakka struggling to breathe as the guy sitting beside him is chain smoking and unknowingly blowing it in his direction. Seifer is nineteen with a forged ID and just wants a drink. 

He’s also lost, staring at the bottom of his empty glass deciding if spending the last of his gil on liquor is worth it or not. Right now he just wants to forget. 

 _Is there any worth in anything anymore?_

Ultimecia was gone. Edea didn’t want him. Fujin and Raijin abandoned him. Alone and rejected, Seifer has no one left, save for his own weapon which was tucked away in a secluded space outside the city in a nearby forest. She was too much a risk to carry with him _everywhere_. 

Seifer lifts the collar of his shirt and he can still smell the tobacco and tar filling his lungs. The young revolutionary hasn’t picked up smoking yet, he won’t for a few years. He silently curses the man beside him, wanting to give him a piece of his mind because he’s young, defeated and looking for a fight but instead says nothing. Instead he remains seated. He has to be careful. Has to remain vigilant. If he speaks up Seifer risks drawing attention to himself and if he’s quite honest, that is the _last_ thing he needs right now. 

Blue-green eyes look up to the television screens in the corner, finding it painfully hard to hear over the buzz and chatter of the bar and the smoker’s piercingly boisterous laugh. It’s clear the Bomber can’t afford decent satellite feeds as they are using local broadcasts to talk about the ongoing investigation for the Sorceress Knight. 

Just as the pretty girl reading from the teleprompter starts divulging in declassified news from Garden, the chain smoker next to Seifer shouts a string of obscenities to the bartender and moves to stand. He spills his drink into Seifer’s lap when he stumbles and immediately the blonde is on his feet. 

“Fucking hell…” He swipes his hand down his black pants that now stink like lager as the man rambles off some slurring apology. 

Seifer looks up and it’s the last thing he remembers before he’s outside in a back alley having his organs rearranged by the same drunk who spilled his drink. He’s pinned to a wall by two other drunks he remembered seeing. He’s just a kid. He’s nineteen. He’s–

He’s a _Knight_. 

Seifer remembers now. The scar between his eyes is a year old but still fresh, still defining and marking him as a traitor, a treasonous war criminal and these men want him dead.

Instinct takes hold once he tasted blood.

“Fir–AAH–” Another blow interrupts his cast. The pain is unbearable but he has to get the words out. The fire in his blood is coursing, the fever rising to a pitch as he feels the energy make a second attempt. 

He falls to his knees, unable to stand as blood begins to spill out from a gasping mouth. The young Knight struggles to breathe, his chest feels clouded, feels like chunks of glass are trapped, his body sends shockwaves of pain through his body. 

He has to. He has to use it. This gift he keeps so closely guarded and hidden away. 

As they lift him back up, a knife moving towards him Seifer sucks in a rattling breath of air, finding the word he had tried to use before: 

“Firaga–” 

It’s a blast of intense heat. A blazing explosion of fire swallows them all up in an intense, brilliant light and his enemies are dead, an instant kill, turned into burning corpses. 

It takes a moment for this scalded Knight of misfortune to recover. He looks around, no one has seen or heard them. Saturday nights in Dollet are often the best times to go out. No one cares, everyone is too busy getting to their destinations to look down alleys at the goings on. 

His hands tremble as he pilfers pockets, scalded hands retrieve wallets and cash. He needs all of it to survive. Seifer was never taught how to live outside of Garden, and the thought of being alone terrifies this boy with this dark secret long kept.

Nobody knows. 

Nobody knows his secret. 

And it must remain that way. 

The Knight keeps quiet as he unsteadily shambles out of the alley. Most people would suspect he was another drunk. He needs to reach an item shop soon. Potion. He needs a potion, not a clinic. His lungs rattle as he sucks in a strangled breath. 

The scent of the burned ozone and charred flesh ebbs away the farther he gets away from the dark area so he takes in the scent of the city. Steel, concrete, brick and gasoline fill his keen senses with that underlying earthy scent of petrichor, the scent of this city is sweet. 

It’s comforting. The only comfort he feels anymore is the scent of a city street after the rain. 

Seifer decides he will stay here, for the time being.  


End file.
